


Constellation Series: Damage Control

by snailboat64



Series: Constellation Series [5]
Category: Human Target - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailboat64/pseuds/snailboat64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple job spins out of control, leaving Chance in the hands of a psychotic Navy SEAL. Case fic. WARNING! Contains a scene involving torture!</p><p>NOTE: Now with extra chapter! (Chapter 8)</p><p>
  <b>All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic (also posted on here and on ffnet) called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. Mostly they are one-shots that can be read alone, but I have also adaptied the longer case-fics that make up quite a large chunk of Comfort.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I am (re)posting these fics for two main reasons: 1. Not everyone likes slash and 2. Comfort is quite a long fic, so not everyone has the time or inclination to wade through it all!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Human Target isn't mine and I make no money from this.**

* * *

"So, I just have to sneak back into the apartment block, grab the hard copies of the security footage from the third floor janitor's closet, get out, and hand the client and the discs over to the cops, and then he's in the clear."

"I don't know, Chance," Winston frowned. "Something about this just doesn't feel right."

"I swear I didn't kill her!" Clinton protested.

Winston felt sorry for the guy. Clinton was a nephew of an old friend from SFPD, and he had no doubt that he had nothing to do with the mess he now found himself embroiled in. He'd just had the bad luck of being on duty at the time when one of the residents of the apartment block where he worked security was beaten to death by her husband, a Navy SEAL. The police were on scene at the woman's apartment when he'd gone to hand over the security footage that showed the woman's estranged husband entering the building around the time of the murder. When he saw NCIS take charge of the crime scene however, he panicked and fled, hiding the security footage on his way out.

"We believe you, Clinton," Winston said. "That's not the issue here. I'm just concerned that the victim's husband is a Navy SEAL! Why risk trying to retrieve the discs ourselves when we could just tip off the police?"

"Because the dude is a SEAL," Guerrero said, exasperated that Winston still didn't get it, "and a highly decorated one at that! Which is why NCIS have jurisdiction here, not the cops. It's gonna look a whole lot better for the Navy if Clinton takes the rap for murder, rather than Lieutenant Grimes! The dude has just been awarded the Silver Star!"

"The cops don't even have access to the crime scene anymore, Winston," Chance explained. "Which means if we tip anyone off about the location of the security footage, it will be NCIS not SFPD who retrieve it. There's no guarantee that the discs won't just get 'lost' and then it's Grimes' word against Clinton's. Who do you think the Navy would rather pin this on?"

"I heard him, Winston!" Clinton said. "He told them that he saw me leaving that poor woman's apartment! He told them I killed her, and I need those discs to prove he was there and I wasn't!"

Winston frowned. "But surely once they investigate the scene…"

"My prints will be all over that apartment! She had me check and double check the locks and alarm system virtually every day! She was terrified that her husband would find her and hurt her!"

"But still…"

"Clinton's best hope of getting out of this without a murder conviction is if I go retrieve the discs myself," Chance said.

"And this has absolutely nothing to do with the you loving the idea of taking on a Navy SEAL, I suppose," Winston said doubtfully.

Guerrero grunted dismissively. "Dude, we've been there, done that. One little Frogman is not gonna be much of a problem."

Winston sighed. Everything had been so quiet since Ilsa had returned to London that he'd thought maybe they'd turned a corner. He'd hoped that without the constant thrum of unresolved sexual tension permeating the atmosphere, the team would be more focused, more professional. But Chance was as gung ho as ever, and Guerrero was always there to back him up, no matter what the risks were. They were still just as bad as each other, and it didn't look like that was going to change any time soon.

* * *

"'One little Frogman', that's what you said, wasn't it?" Winston said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Guerrero ignored him and studied the security feed on the monitors in front of him. There was a floor by floor search for the missing security footage under way, and it was only a matter of time before they reached the third floor janitor's closet. If their plan was going to succeed, Chance had to move in now. Guerrero seemed unconcerned by the number of men in fatigues taking part in the search, despite the fact that a couple of them were armed with assault rifles in addition to their sidearms.

"Are we even going to get paid for this job?" Ames asked. "No offence Clinton, but you don't exactly look like the kind of guy who can afford to hire us."

The surveillance van was quite spacious, but with four people crammed in the back, it didn't leave much elbow room, so when Winston turned to glare at Ames, she got a whole face-full of disapproval, up-close and personal. "Not everything is about money, Ames."

"Jeez, Winston! You ever actually trim all that nasal hair, or are you just waiting until it's long enough to braid?"

 _"Do you mind keeping the chatter down a bit guys?"_ Chance asked via the comms link. _"The personal grooming tips can wait until after I've sneaked through an apartment block full of heavily armed military police."_

"Sorry dude," Guerrero replied, glaring at Ames and Winston. "I'll keep the kids quiet from now on."

 _"Much appreciated."_

Winston glared at Ames, who responded by pretending to reach for the nasal hair in question. He slapped her hand away, and was about to give her a piece of his mind when Chance's voice came over the comms link again.

 _"Winston, you can spank her later, but right now she needs to be moving into position."_

Ames poked out her tongue, and slipped out of the van before Winston had a chance to retaliate. Guerrero and Winston watched the monitors anxiously as Chance entered the building dressed as a delivery man. He was given a cursory pat-down by the security guard on duty who checked his fake ID before being waving him on through to the elevator, watched by a bored looking guy in fatigues.

"I don't see why we're even sending Ames in on this one," Winston grumbled. "Why complicate things when the place is jammed full of military police?"

"Never hurts to have a contingency plan, dude. If anyone catches on to what Chance is doing, it's gonna pay off to have someone else in the building for him to pass the discs off to."

" _ _Plus these Navy guys are totally hot,"__ Ames chimed in via the comms link.

"You just keep your hands to yourself, young lady! We've got a job to do here and don't you forget it!"

"' _ _Young lady?' Jeez, Winston, you're not my dad!"__

 _"Uh, guys. A little quiet please? I'm on the third floor now."_

Winston looked like he was going to say something, but a meaningful look from Guerrero made him swallow his words, and concentrate on the monitors instead.

* * *

Ames breezed into the lobby of the building as if she owned the place, ignoring both the security guard and the military policeman, and headed straight for the elevator.

"Miss," the security guard called after her self-consciously. "Hey, miss!"

Ames spun round and gave him an exasperated look. "What?"

"Are you a resident here?" he asked, struggling to sound authoritative in front of the man in fatigues, who seemed amused by Ames' attitude. "If not I'll need to see some ID and…"

"Oh for goodness sake," Ames huffed. "Really? Every frickin' time?"

"I'm sorry miss but I've never…"

"It's bad enough that I've got to come in here every other day to water my boss's stupid plants for two weeks whilst she's lying around on some beach down in Florida, pretending to be at some dumb marketing seminar. Do I really have to go through the whole ID thing every frickin' time?"

 _"Easy Ames,"_ Guerrero warned. _"Don't overdo it."_

"If you could just show me your ID and…"

"Here!" Ames rummaged around in her purse, fetching out a fake ID in the name of one Bethany Hicks and thrusting it in the man's face. "And I'm still going to apartment number 31 to water the plants of Ms Melanie Fry!"

 _"It's Bly not Fry!"_ Clinton said. _"She's got the name wrong!"_

 _"Ames, it's Bly you idiot!"_ Guerrero repeated over the comms.

The security guy was already checking the name against the list of residents, and when he found apartment 31 he frowned. "There is no Melanie Fry in this…"

"Urgh! Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Ames sneered, determined to bluff her way through it. "I said 'Bly', with a B!"

 _"She's really pushing it,"_ Winston muttered.

 _"We got a problem?"_ Chance asked.

 _"No,"_ Guerrero replied _. "Ames is hamming it up a bit, but the douche on reception just waved her through anyway. She heading your way now. You need to get to that closet soon, bro. They've finished their sweep of the second floor and they're gonna be on your floor any minute now. Looks like they're gonna take the stairs."_

 _"Is Grimes with them?"_

 _"No, so keep your eyes peeled,"_ Winston replied.

 _"I'm synching the cameras now,"_ Guerrero said. _"You've got two minutes max before the guard's monitor cycles back to the camera on the third floor corridor."_

* * *

Clinton had supplied Chance with the his master key so, after checking the corridor was clear, he let himself into the closet and closed the door behind him. Fortunately he'd also provided him with a very clear description as to where exactly he'd stashed the discs, so he didn't have to waste time looking for them.

He retrieved the discs from the back of one of the shelves, behind some old paint cans, and stuffed the fake parcel that he'd used for his cover out of sight.

"Am I clear?" he asked.

 _"_ _ _ _Go now!"_ __ Guerrero ordered.

Chance slipped back out into the corridor and headed back towards the elevator, but as the door shut behind him, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye.

" _ _Shit! It's Grimes!"__ Guerrero said. __"I think he clocked you! You're going to have to make the drop!"__

Chance quickened his pace, and to his relief Ames stepped out of the elevator and strode down the corridor towards him. She didn't so much as flinch as Chance dropped the discs and Clinton's key in to her bag on the way past.

* * *

There was a tense moment as Guerrero and Winston watched the monitors, waiting to see if Grimes had noticed the drop, but he ignored Ames completely in favour of tailing Chance.

"Take the stairs," Guerrero said. "His less likely to try anything in front of NCIS."

Chance walked past the elevator and pulled open the doors leading to the stairwell.

"Unless he panics," Winston added. "What if he thinks Chance is about to hand over the discs?"

"Still better than being trapped in an elevator with a homicidal SEAL, dude."

"What's that he's got in his hand?" Clinton asked.

Winston squinted at the scene for a moment. "Is that a gun?"

Guerrero zoomed in on the image of Grimes, before cursing and reaching for his gun. "It's a fucking grenade!"

They watched helplessly as Grimes yanked upon the door and ripped out the pin before tossing the grenade into the stairwell. He took cover back in the corridor, and seconds later the security cameras cut out.


	2. Chapter 2

As the monitors cut out Guerrero went for the door at the back of the van, only to find his exit blocked by Winston's considerable body mass.

"Get out of my way," Guerrero said, in a low, dangerous tone.

"For fucks sake, Guerrero, think! A grenade just went off in a stairwell full of armed military personnel! You can't just -"

"Chance was in that stairwell!"

"And what do you hope to achieve by charging in there waving a gun around? They've just been attacked by an unknown assailant, how do you think they're going to respond to you storming in there? This is the definition of a shoot now, ask questions later situation! Hell, at this point I'm not sure they'd even bother with asking questions at all. You go in there waving a gun around, and they will shoot to kill!"

Clinton cowered in the corner as the two men faced off, yelling in each other's faces. Guerrero held his gun, safety off with his finger poised on the trigger, and although it was not yet actually pointed at Winston, everything about his stance screamed that it would only take a heartbeat to remedy this. Winston stood his ground, determined to wear Guerrero down with his words until he saw the logic of what he was trying to tell him. Clinton just hoped that he got though to him before Guerrero shot him.

"I'm not just going to sit here and do nothing!" Guerrero snarled.

"If you go in there half-cocked, you are putting Chance in more danger than he already is! Right now they will see him as an injured civilian and they'll help him. But if you go in there armed and angry, there's every chance they'll see you as a potential threat and will take you both down just to err on the side of caution!"

Guerrero stared unflinchingly at the mountain of flesh and bone that was blocking his exit. There was a wildness in his eyes that had Winston silently praying that he could reach whatever rational part of his mind that was still functioning. Guerrero's jaw was clenched, and Winston could see the veins standing out on his neck, his whole body was rigid with tension. The hand holding the gun seemed to move by its own volition, and Winston's blood froze as it turned in his direction.

"Guerrero, I need you to back the fuck down! As much as you'd love to shoot me and charge on in there, it will only make matters worse! Chance needs our help! You gonna calm down and help him, or are you gonna go get him killed? Your choice!"

His words finally broke through, and Guerrero's focus seemed to snap back to the van and the fact that he was aiming a loaded weapon in Winston's face. He eased his finger away from the trigger and lowered his gun. Winston was acutely aware that Guerrero had been perfectly willing to shoot him to get to Chance. His brain shied away from thinking about just how close a call he'd just faced.

Guerrero sank back into his seat in front of the monitors and stared at them in a slightly unfocused way. Winston considered trying to persuade him to holster his gun, but decided that as long as it wasn't pointed in his face, it wasn't worth the time and effort it would take to achieve.

"Is there no way to get those security cameras back online?" Winston asked. He knew they were probably useless to them now, but he hoped the question might help get Guerrero's head back in the game.

Guerrero shook his head. "The blast knocked out the cameras in the stairwell and most likely Chance's comms too. We need another way to get eyes in that stairwell."

It wasn't much, but any verbal but Winston considered any verbal communication from him as progress at this point. Winston pulled out his cell phone and dialled Ames' number, putting the call on speaker phone.

 _"_ _ _ _What the fuck just happened!_ " __she hissed as she answered the call. _"It sounded like a bomb went off and the comms went dead! I think my ear is actually bleeding!"_

"Grimes threw a grenade into the stairwell," Winston explained. "It's knocked out the surveillance cameras and Chance's earpiece."

 _"Oh fuck…"_

"Ames, we need you to be our eyes here. You have to go to the stairwell and tell us what you see."

 _"Oh my god! It's going to be all blood and guts and body parts, isn't it? I don't think I -"_

"Ames, get a grip!" Winston interrupted, glancing a Guerrero to see what effect her panicked babbling had on him. Thankfully, rather than provoking him into another rash reaction, it actually seemed to help him regain some level of focus on the job at hand.

"Can you smell burning?" Guerrero asked. "Is there any sign of a fire? Has the sprinkler system or firm alarm gone off?"

 _"No, nothing like that. There was just this huge bang and -"_

Guerrero let out a slow, heavily breath. It wasn't quite a sigh of relief, but it was close. "It sounds like it might have been a concussion grenade, maybe even just a flash-bang. Ames, you need to check out that stairwell and tell us what you see!"

 _"No body parts splashed up the walls?"_

"Not by the sound of it, no," Winston said, wincing at her total lack of tact. "But you need to be careful. There's a whole heap of armed men in there who are likely to be pissed and looking for someone to shoot at. We don't know where Grimes is either, so for the love of god, don't let anyone see you!"

 _"Okay. I'll take a look."_

The tension in the surveillance van was palpable as they waited for Ames to report back to them. They heard a faint click as Ames opened the door to the stairwell, and then some muffled groaning.

"Ames! What do you see?" Guerrero asked.

They heard the door click shut, and then there were a few seconds silence.

"What the hell is going on, Ames?" Winston asked.

 _"Sorry, just wanted to put a bit of distance between them and me. Man, do they look pissed!"_

"What the fuck did you see?" Guerrero demanded, rapidly losing what little patience he had. "Is Chance okay? Is he hurt?"

 _"I don't know! There just a heap of angry looking Navy guys shaking their heads and moaning. No one seems to be badly hurt or bleeding or anything, but I didn't see Chance!"_

"What do you mean you didn't see Chance?" Winston asked as Guerrero cursed, getting up and kicking the side of the van in frustration.

 _"I mean, he wasn't there!"_

"Are you sure?" Winston asked.

 _"Yes, I'm fucking sure. He's not there!"_

"What about Grimes, you see any sign of him?"

 _"No."_

"Do you have the discs?" Winston asked.

 _"Yes."_

"Fuck the damn discs!" Guerrero snapped.

Winston made some vague calming gestures with his hands. "Let yourself into apartment 31 and wait for us to come to you," he said to Ames. "Do not open the door for anyone, you understand?"

 _"Yeah."_

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Details like which way was up or down, whether it was day or night, and just where the hell he was, paled into mundane matters of geography compared to the all encompassing pain that demanded, and was getting, all of Chance's attention. He was dimly aware that his vision was obscured by something over his face, and that his limbs seemed to be restrained by… something, but the closer his mind swam to consciousness, the worse the pain was.

It started with the hot, searing pain in his head, which began as a localised throbbing to one side that suggested that at some point, he had been hurled against something solid and immovable. A wall? The ground? Even as he tried to dredge up a recent memory that might explain such an injury, other parts of his body seemed to check in with their own complaints, adding new notes of discomfort to the cacophony of pain. His jaw throbbed in a familiar sort of way that told him he'd been punched at least once, and the way his aching ribs protested with every breath argued that his assailant hadn't stopped at one blow. He couldn't come up with any explanation from the excruciating pain that was radiating out from his left shoulder though, and the more alert he was, the more persistent it grew. It felt strangely liquid in the way that it flowed down through his arm, constant and unrelenting, but it was bearable, just.

He heard an engine start up, and he had barely time to register the fact that he was tied up in the back of a vehicle of some sort, before the driver pulled away. Chance instinctively tried to brace himself to avoid being jostled around, but that proved to be a mistake. As soon as he tried to move his arms a bolt of sizzling agony ripped through his shoulder, knocking the breath from his body. The pitch black in front of his eyes was briefly lit up by dancing points of light before he slipped back into oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3

Guerrero had already done fairly extensive research into Lieutenant Grimes' background before they had attempted to retrieve the discs, but he obviously hadn't dug deeply enough. They'd been working under the assumption that Grimes was simply planning on framing Clinton for his wife's murder, but if that was the case, why did he toss that grenade? Guerrero suspected that it was something other than panic because Grimes had had the forethought to have the grenade on him, even before he'd spotted Chance acting suspiciously. If it wasn't panic then it had to be a deliberate act, and an irrational one at that from a man trying to get away with murder.

He barely noticed when Winston told him he was going in to escort Ames safely out of the apartment building, he had already pulled out his laptop and was scrutinising Grimes' file, searching for anything he might have missed the first time round. He was limited as to what he could access without drawing attention to himself; most of the operations Grimes had taken part in were classified, therefore the records were extremely well protected. It would take time to hack them safely, time he didn't have. He hadn't seen the point in trying to access them before. It had seemed unnecessarily risky when they already knew he was guilty of murder, and they had the means to get the evidence to prove it, but given Grimes' irrational behaviour, it was now essential to find out more.

He stared at the screen for a moment, racking his brain for a way to get at the information he needed, when he noticed that there was an attachment to the file concerning his latest mission. The document itself was classified but the attachment, for some reason, was not. He opened it up, but his heart sank when he found that all it contained was a single line of text.

 _  
Extended medical leave. Permission for private assessment granted.  
_

Guerrero frowned and sat back, trying to think of a reason why a decorated Navy SEAL would choose not to take advantage of government funded healthcare. Grimes was from an affluent, well-connected family, so they could afford to pay for the best doctors, but what was wrong with him that he didn't want his superiors to know? He'd already looked into Grimes' own financial records and found nothing out of the ordinary, so perhaps it was time to take a look at his parents. Hacking into bank records was a much simpler task than accessing classified military documents, and it didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, a substantial payment to a Dr Heatly.

The van doors swung open, making Clinton yelp with surprise. Winston climbed back into the van and slammed the door behind him.

"No Ames?" Guerrero asked, not looking away from his laptop.

"Can't get into the building," Winston grumbled. "They're claiming that there was a small explosion due to a gas leak, and they're not letting anyone in or out. Ames figures she stands a better chance sneaking out on her own via a fire escape."

Guerrero glanced at Winston, as if he was about to make a disparaging comment about his size but thought better of it. Winston was relieved that he seemed to have regained his composure somewhat.

"Grimes is nuts," Guerrero said.

"Yeah, well the grenade was kind of clue there…"

"No, I mean he's really nuts," Guerrero said. "He's been seeing a shrink. I think there's more to this than him just waking up on day and deciding to murder his wife."

"You think it's some kind of post-traumatic stress thing?" Winston asked.

"I don't think so no. If it was PTSD why not just let Uncle Sam pick up the bill for his treatment? I think he's been trying to hide whatever is wrong from his superiors. It's got to be something that would end his career."

"Makes sense I guess," Winston said.

"The doc's office isn't far from here. I think I should drop by and talk to him. Maybe Grimes has told him something that could lead us to him."

"Either Chance has followed Grimes or he was taken against his will," Winston mused. "Either way we need to find Grimes, and fast, before anyone else gets hurt. I'll take Clinton and the discs to the cops, although at this point I don't think Grimes is too concerned about the footage."

"There's definitely something else going on here," Guerrero said, "and I think the doctor is our best chance of finding out what." He tucked his gun away and slipped out the door, closing it almost silently behind him.

Winston didn't exactly feel good about letting Guerrero take off on his own to question the doctor, but he had a responsibility to get the client to safety, and he knew there was no chance that Guerrero would wait around while he took Clinton to the cops.

"But surely the doctor won't tell him anything," Clinton said. He hadn't wanted to risk angering the temperamental man by intruding on the conversation, but he found his voice once Guerrero was gone . "I mean, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that…"

"Confidentiality doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot to Guerrero," Winston explained. "If the doctor knows anything useful, he'll tell him."

* * *

The pain was still there waiting for Chance the second time he drifted back to consciousness, but his surroundings had definitely changed. The air was cooler, and although some kind of hood still covered his head, there was a sense of space and subdued light that hadn't been there before. The ground beneath him was cool, but also hard and unforgiving. He hazarded a guess that he was lying on the concrete floor of some kind of shed or garage. He could just make out a faint metallic tang in the air, along with a hint of what might have been motor oil.

Trying to move was definitely not a good idea; his shoulder was still extremely painful and most likely dislocated. He knew that any attempt to move any part of his upper body was likely to jar it, and he had no intention of passing out again. He tried to focus on what else he could hear and smell, partly to distract himself from the pain, but also to learn as much as he could about his current situation. His recent memory was still a bit of a blur, but he remembered walking into the apartment building and hearing Winston and Ames squabbling through his earpiece, but whatever happened after that was still a blank. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the trunk of a car, bound hand and foot.

It occurred to him that his hands lay by his sides and were no longer tied behind his back, and he decided to risk trying to move his legs, to see if they were free too. He was in no condition to fight, but maybe if his legs were free he might at least be able to make a run for it, assuming he could find a way to get to his feet without blacking out. He was lying on his back, his legs crossed at the ankles, so he tried to gently slide one foot away from the other, but it was impossible. Evidently only his captor had only removed the bonds on his wrists.

"Good," a man's voice said. "You're awake. I'm getting a bit bored with you drifting off like that. No discipline. No discipline at all." The man's footsteps didn't make a sound as he walked towards him, but from the sound of his voice, Chance could tell he was moving closer. "Looks like I'm going to have to fix you before I can break you."

Chance barely had time to draw breath to reply before he felt a dull weight suddenly crush his chest, knocking the wind out of him. It took a moment for him to realise that the unseen man was now kneeling on his chest. The man grabbed Chance's left wrist and bent his elbow so his arm formed a right angle across his stomach. Chance knew what was coming next, but as the man on his chest began to rotate his left arm away from his body, forcing his dislocated shoulder back into alignment, he could do nothing, not even take a deep breath, to brace himself for the pain. Muscles, ligaments and tendons were stretched and distorted to allow the bone to slide back into place, and despite his determination to stay conscious, the bone-crunching agony, combined with the man's weight on his chest restricting his breathing, proved too much. He didn't even have the breath to cry out before he fell back into the darkness again.


	4. Chapter 4

As Guerrero approached the door to Dr Heatly's office he saw a woman walk out and lock the door behind her. She looked at him warily.

"Is the doctor in?" he asked.

She shifted her purse on to her shoulder. "Dr Heatly is at lunch until two o'clock, and even then you will require an appointment."

Guerrero nodded. "I'll call back later then."

The woman watched him suspiciously for a moment, and Guerrero pulled out his cell phone and wandered a little further down the hall, as if he was seeking a little privacy to make a call. This seemed to satisfy the woman that he wasn't about to kick the door down, and she headed towards the elevator. He waited until the doors slid shut behind her before dropping his cell back in his pocket and pulling out his lock picks. If the doctor was out to lunch he'd have a chance to take a look at his files before speaking to the man himself, and if he was having lunch in his office, he could skip straight to the interrogation.

It turned out to be the latter.

"Mary always tries to persuade me to have lunch away from the office," the doctor said, placing the sandwich he'd been holding back into the Tupperware container in front of him. He dusted the crumbs off his hands and looked up at the man standing in the doorway. "She thinks that eating in my office means that I don't enjoy a proper break. I think maybe today she's right. What can I do to help you Mr…?"

"You treat a Lieutenant Simon Grimes."

"I can't discuss my patients," Heatly said, leaning back in his chair. "Aside from the confidentiality issue, I don't even know who you are."

"I know you treat Grimes, and I know the guy has more than a few screws loose."

"And?"

"And I know something you don't."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

The doctor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Okay, for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Lieutenant Grimes is under my care. Anyone could observe him entering my office twice a week, so that really doesn't count as privileged information. It is also in the public domain that his wife was murdered yesterday. I don't know what you think you know but-"

Guerrero grunted. "Dude, we both know he offed his wife. That's old news, and to be honest I couldn't care less." He stepped into the office and shut the door behind him, locking it. "What I know, that you don't, is that he threw a grenade into a stairwell full of people today. Mostly they were military police, but my colleague was also in that stairwell, and now both he and Grimes are missing."

"I see."

"No, I don't think you do."

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly. You're a man of violence, that much is obvious. The way you walked in here like you owned the place - I take it you picked the lock to get in? Mary finds my clientele very intimidating and she would have triggered her personal alarm if you had tried to push past her, so you must have waited for her to leave, and she always locks the door behind her. Then there's your clothes: casual, non-descript and chosen, I suspect, to hide that shoulder holster. I wouldn't be surprised if those boots didn't hide a knife or two either."

"Yeah, I get it. You're a shrink. You read people."

"I wasn't always a shrink," the doctor said, smiling. "I was a marine. And I know a mercenary when I see one. Right about now is the time when you should start issuing threats and ultimatums. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't lead with that. From your demeanour, I'd hazard a guess that it isn't just business to you, this seems to be a rather more personal issue."

"Yeah, it's fucking personal. What's the deal with Grimes?"

"As I said, that's not something I'm willing or able to discuss."

"You're right," Guerrero said. "I would normally start issuing threats, but we both know that you are the only person who has the information I need to find Grimes, so your life isn't really in danger." The doctor nodded. "And usually I would have done some research in to your life, to establish your pressure points. Everybody has them, someone they care about, a parent, a spouse, a child; or it maybe another aspect of their lives, their career or reputation perhaps. But I confess, I haven't had the time to find yours Dr Heatly."

"That does seem to weaken your position somewhat, Mr…?"

"Guerrero."

The doctor tried to keep his expression impassive, but Guerrero caught the subtle shift in his body language that gave away the fact the doctor was familiar with his name.

"You've heard of me," Guerrero said, his icy stare unwavering as he observed and catalogued the minute signs of stress on the doctors face: the set of his jaw, the slight tension around his eyes, and one tell-tale bead of sweat slowly forming on the man's upper lip. "That should expedite things a bit."

"If you are who you say you are, then yes, I have dealt with the aftermath of your handiwork on more than one occasion. I specialise in treating veterans with PTSD, but I am well aware that there are things that can damage the human mind far more than warfare."

"So you know I am good at what I do." The doctor nodded again. "As I said, I usually find a person's pressure points, but in this instance your patient has had the misfortune of stumbling across one of mine. There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing. Usually I would tailor my actions to target the people in your life that mean the most to you, but as time is of the essence here, I will take a less focused approach. I will simply kill everyone in your life: friends, family, neighbours, the chick who cuts your hair, the kid who bags your fucking groceries. Everyone you even so much as speak to will die. Everywhere you go, people will suffer and die."

The doctor's face went gray and bloodless as the scale of what Guerrero was threatening him with sank in. Guerrero glanced at the clock on the wall. "At two o'clock Mary will be back at her desk. That seems a good place for me to start. I'll even let you watch as I rip her throat open and let her bleed to death."

"This man, your colleague, is he really worth taking those kind of risks?" Heatly asked, in a desperate attempt to appeal to his sense of self-preservation. "Murder on the scale you're talking about would certainly mean that your own freedom, your own life would be in jeopardy."

"I know," Guerrero replied. "But failure is not an option here. Your choice: tell me what you know or face your own private Armageddon."

* * *

It wasn't pain that roused Chance the next time, it was the biting shock of the iced water that was dumped over his head and torso. As he spluttered and gasped for air, he realised that the hood covering his face had been removed, and he was momentarily grateful for this, before he realised that if his captor didn't care about him seeing his face, the odds were he wasn't planning on letting him get out of this situation alive. His captor had also removed his jacket, shirt, shoes and socks, leaving him wearing only his underwear and the pants from his delivery guy disguise. His feet were still bound together, and his captor had retied his hands behind his back. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull persistent ache now that it was no longer dislocated, but the head injury and the damage to his ribs still left him feeling dizzy and nauseated.

A hand grabbed at his hair and jerked his head back. "On your knees!" a man's voice ordered. Chance recognised it as the same voice he'd heard earlier, from the man who'd fixed his shoulder, but he couldn't get a look at him because he was standing behind him. Chance managed so struggle awkwardly to his knees, not a task that was made any easier by the way the man was still gripping his hair.

The man placed a booted foot on the back of Chance's calves, to prevent him from trying to stand up, and released his hair in order to pass something through whatever was binding his ankles together. Once he had secured Chance's ankles to a ring set in the concrete floor, he removed his foot from Chance's legs.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but-" A hand came out of nowhere and smacked the injured side of his head in an open handed blow that brought back the bright points of light dancing in front of his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and stave off another blackout. The hand grabbed at his hair again, steadying him before a noose of electrical cable was placed around his neck, and pulled just tight enough to ensure that he had to stay kneeling up to prevent himself from being choked. The man added another restraint, securing something to the bonds on Chance's wrists then fastening it off on the metal ring set into the floor.

Chance now had no option but to kneel perfectly still; he could neither stand up nor sit down. It didn't feel too bad to start with, but he knew that being forced to maintain the same position for a prolonged period of time would prove to be exhausting and painful. He couldn't help shivering, the icy water had soaked through his pants, and the cool air of the garage against his wet skin only added to his discomfort.

Satisfied that Chance was adequately restrained, his captor walked in front of him and faced him for the first time. As soon as Chance saw his face, a flood of memories returned: retrieving the discs and passing them to Ames; Grimes following him down the corridor; starting down the stairs; the sound of the grenade rolling down the steps before the deafening explosion that had knocked him from his feet and sent him tumbling head first into a wall. He been disoriented, his vision blurred from the impact with the wall, and then Grimes had been standing over him. He'd kicked him in the ribs, and Chance had been too dazed to do much more than grab his foot and hold on, to stave off any more kicks. It was then that Grimes had punched him, slamming his head against the wall and knocking him out cold.

"What are you trying to achieve here, Grimes?" Chance asked, taking advantage of the fact that his hands were out of Grimes' line of sight to investigate what he'd used to bind his hands and feet. It seemed to be more electrical cable, hopelessly knotted and twisted into a tangle that Chance would have been hard pushed to unravel even if he could see it. There was absolutely no give in the cable, and there seemed to be at least five ends which suggested that there were at least three pieces of cable involved, and that was just in what was binding his wrists together.

Grimes stared at him for a full minute, as if he were expecting Chance to attack him, despite the fact that he was bound tight, and effectively helpless. Chance was careful to maintain eye-contact, even as he took in the details of his surroundings with his peripheral vision. It seemed he had guessed correctly; he was being held in a garage, but he didn't risk looking around him. It seemed to be a fairly standard domestic garage, with the usual collection of tools and junk. His current predicament didn't allow him enough range of movement to make use of anything in his surroundings, so his priority was to attempt to build some kind of connection with Grimes himself, to buy Guerrero and Winston enough time to find him.

"I know," Grimes said cryptically, as if Chance was supposed to know what the hell he meant.

"Know what?" Chance asked.

"I know!" Grimes repeated, more sharply this time, holding something up between his forefinger and thumb. It took Chance a moment to recognise the object, but then he realised it was his ear-bud. In all the confusion, he hadn't even registered that it was gone.

"You watch and you listen and you follow! You think I didn't know you were there, but I know! You follow and you judge and you test me! You don't think I know that it's all a test? Well I do! I know!"

Chance's heart sank as he realised that making any kind of connection with Grimes was going to be impossible, his grip on reality was far too tenuous, and he clearly had some kind of persecution complex. Chance had seen this kind of thing before, back when he'd been working for the Old Man. If a man was pushed too far, if he didn't learn to compartmentalise the horrors he seen, and more importantly those that he'd inflicted, his mind could fall apart under the pressure. It was bad enough if it happened to a member of a unit, at least then there were people to notice and contain the situation; but if the man was working alone or undercover, the paranoia and feelings of persecution would spin out of control, unnoticed and unchecked until the man became a time bomb waiting to go off.

He knew that Grimes was too far gone to reason with. Attempting to do so was likely to anger him further, but if he said nothing at all it would make it easier for Grimes to dehumanise him altogether. He had to find a way to interact with the madman that would engage him without enraging him.

"I wasn't following you," Chance said. "That wasn't my assignment."

Grimes dropped the earpiece to the floor and trod on it, grinding it beneath his boot as if he were extinguishing a cigarette. "You're lying," he said. "There's no point lying to me. I know!"

Chance saw the move coming, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the kick Grimes aimed at his ribs. He braced himself as best he could, aware that if he was knocked off his knees the noose around his neck would tighten and strangle him. Chance felt rather than heard the crack as Grime's boot connected with his ribs. He was winded, and the sharp pain in his side, along with the sickening crack, told him that he'd broken at least one rib, but although breathing was painful, at least it didn't seem that he'd punctured a lung.

"I know that you've been testing me!" Grimes hissed at him, literally spitting with rage. "And now I'm going to test you! How well did they train you? Just how much punishment can you take before you crack and beg me to end it? There's nothing you can bargain with because I already know! I know everything! I know that this, that you, are a test too. My final test. Just me and you. You and me. What have they sent me? What do they think I can I can handle?" His voice trailed away from a shout to a mumble as he walked away from Chance, repeating the words "me and you" to himself as he began routing around in a battered old holdall that sat on the workbench that stood alongside one wall.

Chance realised that this was not an interrogation or a hostage situation, Grimes intended to torture him, pure and simple. There was no way to reason with him, and there was no way he could free himself, so all that was left was to endure whatever Grimes had planned, and hope that Guerrero found him in time. As much as he respected Winston, this was definitely a Guerrero situation.

It wasn't much of a consolation, but at least it seemed as though Grimes was determined to do well in his 'test', which probably meant that he wasn't likely to rush into killing him.

Grimes pulled a thick leather belt from the holdall and ran it through his hands a couple of times, before wrapping the end of it around his hand, leaving the end with the heavy metal buckle trailing to the floor. He walked slowly across the garage, the buckle scraping and skittering across the concrete floor behind him. Chance had plenty of time to observe the large metal studs set into the leather at regular intervals before Grimes took up his position standing behind him.

Chance steeled himself for the first blow, trying to create a distance between his conscious mind and the physical reality of his situation, but the anticipation was almost worse than the infliction of pain itself. Once the beating had begun, he'd have something to deal with, something for his mind to push back against, but the uncertainty of waiting for that belt to fall against his flesh made him vulnerable and unfocused.

"You lose marks for hesitation, you know," Chance said, out of pure bravado, trying to provoke Grimes into just getting on with it, preferring the certainty of pain to the psychological torture of just kneeling there, waiting for it to begin.

Chance felt a twisted sense of victory as the belt lashed against his back, leaving a fiery welt across his chilled skin. The metal studs bit deep into his flesh, and the heavy buckle gouged into his shoulder, but he grit his teeth and didn't make a sound. His body had taken this kind of punishment before, and there was nothing he could do to prevent what was happening to it now. What was important was to protect his mind, his sense of self, and to do that he had to try and detach himself as much as possible from the situation. He focused on the one person who had never let him down, whom he could trust without question, the man who even now would be tearing the city apart looking for him.


	5. Chapter 5

Winston's cell rang as he headed back to the van. He'd left Clinton with his uncle at SFPD, along with the security footage from the apartment block, and when he spotted Guerrero's name flash up on his cell phone, he quickened his pace, eager to get behind the wheel so he could get moving and find Chance.

"Guerrero-"

 _"I got a lead from the doctor,"_ he interrupted. _"Grimes' wife inherited a property out by Half Moon Bay. I'm heading out there now."_

"How can you be sure that he's even there?"

 _"Grimes let something slip in one of his sessions about his wife inheriting her grandfather's old house and he said it was a safe place for him. Something about there being no cell coverage so They can't spy on him."_

"They? Who are 'They'?"

 _"The Navy, the government, the little green men, who the fuck knows? Doc says Grimes has had some kind of psychotic break. He's paranoid, and right now he'll be looking for somewhere to hole-up, out of sight. The doc recons that he sees Chance as a threat and is probably planning to interrogate him."_

"Okay, what's the address? We'll meet you there."

 _"I can handle Grimes, but I need you to run interference with NCIS. The doc says that Grimes is batshit crazy. If he gets one whiff of the Navy or the cops moving in on him, he's likely to panic and kill Chance."_

"They'll want to talk to the shrink-"

 _"Taken care of, dude. Just need you to keep them chasing their tails so I can get Chance out before they show up and fuck things up."_

"You didn't…?"

 _"Relax. The shrink's with me. I figured he might as well make himself useful. If he can't talk Grimes down, he can at least provide a distraction."_

"NCIS are still gonna head to his office though," Winston said. "They might be able to get something from his records."

 _"Also taken care of. They'll need a warrant to get the records, and by the time they get it a small electrical fault will have fried the doc's hard drive and started a fire that will have burned up any paperwork lying about the place. Just make sure you send them anywhere but Half Moon Bay. I'll take care of the rest."_

"But how am I supposed to-"

 _"Improvise."_

Winston swore as Guerrero hung up on him. He could track down the address of the house in Half Moon Bay from what Guerrero had told him, and part of him wanted nothing more than to high-tail it over there to help Chance, but he couldn't deny that it was more important for him to deal with NCIS.

"So?" Ames asked. "Has Guerrero found them or what?"

"He's got an address. He's heading there now with the shrink."

"Well let's go! What are you waiting for?"

Winston sighed and turned the key in the ignition. "We're going back to the apartment block. You think you can sneak back in the way you came out?"

"Yeah, but why would I want to?" Ames asked, puzzled.

"Because Bethany Hicks had a little run in with Lieutenant Grimes in the hallway and she overheard him talking about heading for the docks. She needs to be back in position in the building to give NCIS a hot tip about where to find Grimes."

Ames frowned, "So Grimes is heading for the docks? Why don't we-"

"No, we just want NCIS to think that's where he's heading so Guerrero can… Ah, screw it. Just get back in the building and make sure they start looking for Grimes at the docks. Okay?"

* * *

It was a forty minute drive out to the property at Half Moon Bay, so it was inevitable that at some point Heatly was going to try and initiate a conversation. He seemed to take his abduction fairly well, especially considering that he was familiar with Guerrero's reputation; but the fact that he was cuffed to the passenger seat, along with the presence of his distraught secretary in the trunk, was added incentive to keep a cool head. He was still a psychiatrist though, so whether it was out of professional curiosity, or more likely in an attempt to try and manipulate the situation to his benefit, he tried to draw Guerrero into conversation.

"If Grimes has reached the point at which he is openly acting on his on his delusions of persecution, there may be little I can do to influence him," he said, once Guerrero had ended his phone call.

Guerrero shrugged, apparently indifferent to what the doctor had just said. Heatly waited a while, giving him a chance to reply, but none was forthcoming. Guerrero kept his eyes on the road and maintained a speed a hairsbreadth below the limit.

Heatly tried a different approach. "Facing Grimes alone may not be the best way to help your friend. Although the presence of law enforcement is likely to push him into doing something rash, trying to take him out on your own is suicidal. You'll be of no use to your friend if you're dead."

"Not planning on letting him kill me, doc. Besides, I'm not going in alone. You're gonna get him talking, keep him distracted while a make my move."

"Grimes is a deeply disturbed individual, but that won't affect his instincts and training. He is still a SEAL and he's not going to go down easily."

Again Guerrero shrugged, as if taking on a psychotic Navy SEAL was just one of those things that had to be done from time to time.

"And what if you do manage to deal with him? What happens to Mary? And me? You're just going to let us go?"

"Well, that depends on you. As long as you make yourself useful, you and Mary have nothing to worry about. Not from me anyway. I can't say that the Navy will feel the same way though."

"I don't know what-"

"Come on doc, I know you're supposed to be good, but not even you would normally receive payments upwards of five grand per session. The Grimes family were paying you off to keep a lid on just how severely fucked up their son is. Judging from your notes, Lieutenant Grimes isn't just a little shell-shocked, he has full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. He should have been institutionalised until his condition could be stabilised, and you had a responsibility to inform the Navy that he was unfit for duty. You could have prevented his wife's death; at the very least you're looking at a clear case of criminal negligence."

He doctor paled, but didn't reply.

"Of course it would be difficult to make a case against you since all your records were destroyed, but I emailed copies of Grimes' files to a friend of mine. If for any reason I don't make contact with him by midnight tonight, he'll ensure that those files are seen by the right people. But as long as you pull your weight, you have nothing to worry about."

Heatly sat in silence for the rest of the journey.

* * *

Chance had no way to gauge the amount of time he'd been held in the garage. It felt like hours, maybe even a full day, but he knew that was more to do with the circumstances than the actual passage of time. Grimes had beaten him with the belt until his back felt like a raw, pulpy mess, and Chance observed the splatter of his own blood hit the concrete floor from time to time. He'd managed to create that distance he needed between his physical and mental state, but although he could watch his blood hit the floor fairly dispassionately, it was not something he could keep up indefinitely.

He still hadn't spoken since he'd goaded Grimes into striking that first blow, but with each lash of the belt against his back, it got harder to remain silent. It was growing increasingly difficult to hold his body rigidly in position to ensure that the noose around his neck didn't draw any tighter, and the immobility was building a slow ache in his joints that, as he'd predicted, only got worse the longer he had to maintain his position kneeling on the concrete floor

The fact that he was being held in what seemed to be a domestic garage led him to believe that he was probably in a residential area, but knowing that there were probably people within shouting distance didn't really help him. If he tried to call out, all Grimes would have to do was give him a shove and the noose would tighten, cutting off his voice, along with his air supply, in seconds. Even if he could have attracted someone's attention, what then? He'd be putting an innocent bystander in danger for nothing. His only option was to keep quiet and wait for Guerrero, so that's what he did.

Perhaps Grimes got tired, or maybe he was bored of repeating the same action with no audible response from Chance, but eventually he tossed the metal studded belt on to the workbench and began rummaging through his holdall again. The brief respite did nothing to help Chance. His back was so raw that without the distraction of fresh blows being rained down on his body, he could feel every heartbeat pulsing through the mangled flesh of his back, building into a unrelenting burning that increased with every passing second.

When Chance saw Grimes retrieve a military grade stun gun from the holdall, he found himself hoping that Grimes had expertise with using the device for the purposes of torture. If he was inexperienced with using a stun gun to inflict pain, rather than to incapacitate, there was a risk that he would apply a prolonged shock that could send Chance's muscles into spasm. If that happened there was every chance that he would be knocked from his knees and the noose would strangle him.

Grimes pulled up a lawn chair and sat behind Chance, letting the anticipation build for a moment. The pressure to say something, to fill that silence was immense, but Chance resisted the urge to provoke him further, knowing that he was only likely to get through this if Grimes maintained some level of control.

Apparently Torture 101 was covered in SEAL training though, because Grimes did know what he was doing. He started with Chance's bare feet, applying jolts that were excruciatingly painful, but not enough to induce convulsions. Silence was no longer an option, as each jolt of electricity ripped through the soles of his feet and sent bolts of pain up his legs and through his body, forcing an involuntary grunt from his lips. Grimes took his time, letting Chance recover for a few seconds before reapplying the current, alternating from time to time between his feet and his fingertips. The repeated shocks were exhausting as well as painful, and Chance found it harder to focus on the idea that help was on the way. He was unable to concentrate on anything but willing himself to get through the pain, one second at a time.

Chance was beginning to experience involuntary tremors in his legs as his body struggled to hold up to the stress of staying upright despite the punishment it was receiving, and Grimes, ever the attentive torturer, returned the stun gun to his holdall and stood watching him for a moment.

"What do they want me to do?" Grimes muttered to himself, as he stared at Chance as though he were a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. "He doesn't talk. He has nothing to say anyway, because I know, and they know that I know. Perhaps he isn't the test. A distraction? A decoy? But they know that I know…. I know that they know that I know…"

Chance wasn't particularly reassured by Grimes' little conversation with himself. If he decided that Chance was not integral to whatever test formed part of his paranoid delusion, he may decide that there was no point in keeping him alive. Grimes shook his head, and seemed to reach some kind of decision.

"What, you're giving up already?" Chance asked, trying to provoke a lucid response. "You were doing okay for a while there."

Grimes responded by kicking him in the gut, and Chance had to force himself to absorb the blow and not give into the natural urge to double over. He needed a moment to catch his breath before he could try speaking again, but when he caught the distant look in Grimes' eyes, he realised that he held no further interest to him, and talking to him wasn't likely to get him anywhere. Grimes even seemed slightly bored as he picked up a can of gasoline and unscrewed the lid.

Chance knew that his time was running out and there was still no sign of Guerrero, but rather than focus on the hopelessness of his situation, he found himself contemplating what his reaction would be to being too late to save him. It would be spectacular, that was for sure, but what if Guerrero was careless in his vengeance against Grimes? Not so long ago Guerrero's emotional response to the mere threat on Chance's wellbeing had resulted in him behaving rashly and getting himself hurt. If Chance were actually killed, he doubted Guerrero would have the presence of mind to ensure that he had a workable exit strategy after dealing with Grimes, and NCIS would eventually track down their location. Chance had faced his own mortality too many times before, and in terms of karma, he felt it was inevitable that he would one day meet a violent end, but the thought of being responsible for Guerrero's demise was something that truly frightened him.

It was more for Guerrero's sake than his own that he tried to talk to Grimes again.

"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes. That has not gone unnoticed by -"

Chance's words were cut off abruptly when Grimes sloshed gasoline into his face. He managed to close his eyes in time to avoid being blinded, but the harsh fumes still made his eyes stream and sting. Only a small amount went in his mouth and he managed to spit that out as Grimes emptied the rest of the can over his body. As it hit the broken skin on his back, the gasoline burned like acid, and Chance bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out as the pain and nausea threatened to induce another blackout.

Grimes tossed the empty gas can on to the workbench, and retrieved a book of matches from the side pocket of his holdall. Chance recognised the logo on the matchbook as one belonging to a bar Ames had once dragged the team into after the completion of a case. Guerrero hadn't been impressed by the bar's tourist-friendly ambiance, and when Chance remembered the expression on his face as Ames handed him drink in a hollowed out pineapple, complete with a sparkler and miniature pink umbrella, his heart ached with the thought that he'd never get to that murderous look on Guerrero's face again.

Grimes was about to strike a match when an unfamiliar voice called his name, startling Chance and dragging him out of his memories, back to the garage and his immanent death.

"Lieutenant Grimes, please put down the matches."

"Doctor Heatly?" Grimes seemed to have a little trouble adjusting to the sudden appearance of his doctor, but in his confusion, he dropped the matches, much to Chance's relief. "How.. Why… What are you doing here?"

"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."


	6. Chapter 6

The house at Half-Moon Bay was dark and deserted when Guerrero pulled up outside. He made a cursory sweep of the single floor building before going back to the car to retrieve the doctor. A thin line of light escaping beneath the garage door when he'd arrived had already pin-pointed the most likely place for Grimes to be holding Chance, but the heavy garage door didn't look like a promising place to enter unnoticed. His quick scout through the house had revealed an internal door that opened into the garage from the kitchen, and he reasoned that he'd stand a much better chance of opening that door without immediately alerting Grimes to his presence.

Guerrero uncuffed the doctor and pulled him to his feet, pressing a finger to his own lips to indicate that he should keep quiet. Heatly nodded and followed him into the house. Guerrero drew his gun and headed straight for the kitchen, and it occurred to Heatly that if he was ever going to make a run for it, now was the time. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. It wasn't just the thought of what Guerrero might do to poor Mary, who was still locked in the trunk; or even the knowledge that he would face criminal charges over the way he'd mishandled Grimes' case that stopped him from running. It was the cold shame eating away at his soul that his actions were in part responsible for Grimes' descent into madness and the death of his wife.

Despite the fact that the lean physique of his youth had long since disappeared, thanks to a good twenty years behind a desk and the inevitable middle aged spread, in his heart, Heatly was still a Marine. He was ashamed that he'd let money seduce him into betraying everything he believed in, everything he'd fought for and good friends had died for.

 _Semper Fidelis…  
_

What loyalty had he shown to God and country by accepting bribes to hide the extent of Grimes' deteriorating mental state? He'd told himself that he was doing the SEAL a favour by treating him quietly, that perhaps with the right treatment he could return to active duty without the unnecessary stigma of a diagnosis of a serious mental illness; but deep down he knew what he was doing was wrong. By all accounts Grimes was a good man, a good soldier, before all this happened. He had deserved to receive the appropriate treatment, to be taught to manage his condition with a little dignity, not cover it up until it ate him away from the inside. He owed it to Grimes to try to negotiate a way out of this mess without unleashing Guerrero on him. Despite what he'd said to Guerrero in the car, he wasn't entirely sure that Grimes' mind would be clear enough to use his combat skills to their full effect, and there was no way of knowing who, if anyone, would walk away from a confrontation between the two men.

Guerrero eased the door to the garage open in almost perfect silence. Heatly's view into the garage was obstructed by Guerrero himself, but he could see his face lit up in profile by the fluorescent light of the garage as he looked inside, and his stomach sank. Heatly had seen madness in many forms throughout the years; first as a Marine when he'd faced men caught up in the heat of the battle to survive, and later dealing with those who had been part of such horrific situations that their own minds twisted against them; but it wasn't madness that he saw in Guerrero's face at that moment. It was worse. He saw an iron-clad sanity, inflexible and calculating. He knew he was looking at a man who was capable of monstrous violence without being affected by it; but worst of all beneath that remained the capacity to care, and right now the one person it seemed he cared deeply about was in danger. Heatly thought of what Guerrero had said at his office: __"There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing."__

Heatly knew he was going to have to step in now for there to be any chance to avoid carnage, so he reached out and put one hand on Guerrero's arm.

"Let me try," he whispered. Guerrero begrudgingly allowed him to trade places with him, and when Heatly saw what Grimes had done to his friend, he was amazed that Guerrero had shown so much restraint.

Heatly barely had time to take in the sight of the blonde man tied to a ring in the floor, noose around his neck and blood oozing from his bruised and lacerated back, before he noticed the can of gasoline in Grimes' hands.

"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes" the blonde man said. "That has not gone unnoticed by -" Heatly winced as Grimes threw gasoline in the helpless man's face, and Guerrero immediately picked up on his reaction.

"What the fuck has he done?" Guerrero demanded.

"Put the gun away," Heatly replied. "Please. For the sake of your friend."

"What the…?" Guerrero was hit by the smell of gasoline as Heatly stepped into the garage.

"Dr Heatly?"

"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."

* * *

When Chance heard the doctor's voice, he turned his head as far as the noose would allow, and saw the doorway though which he'd entered the garage. The room beyond the door was unlit, and the bright lights of the garage made it impossible for him to see who or what lay beyond that door, but he knew that Guerrero wasn't far away. He hid his relief, and coughed loudly, partly to signal to Guerrero that he was conscious and knew that he was there, but also to draw attention to the gasoline fumes. The chances of Guerrero firing off a round and missing his target were fairly remote, but if a round ricocheted off any of the numerous tools or metal surfaces in the garage, there was always the risk of a spark that could ignite the gasoline that was still dripping from his body.

"This is a test," Grimes said. "You're here to witness my test."

"The test is over, Lieutenant," Heatly replied. "It's time to report back to base for debriefing."

Grimes seemed to consider this for a moment. Chance could see that the doctor wasn't nearly as calm as he sought to appear. His face had the greasy sheen of a cold sweat to it, and despite the open and non-threatening body language he was trying to display, Chance could see the tremors in his hands. Heatly was anything but sure of how Grimes would react, and Chance wondered what it had taken for Guerrero to get him to co-operate.

"The test is over?" Grimes asked, frowning.

"Yes. It's over. You have done very well."

Grimes nodded, seeming to accept what the doctor was telling him. "But that's the final test, isn't it? To see if I complete my mission?"

"There is no mission, Grimes!" Heatly said, his fragile façade cracking as fear crept into his voice. "It's over! It's all over!"

A peaceful, almost serene look spread across Grimes' face, and for a moment Chance dared to hope that the doctor's words had pulled him back from the precipice; but then, almost as if in slow motion, Grimes planted one foot on Chance's chest and shoved. Chance managed to stay on his knees, but it really didn't matter; the noose snapped tight around his neck, the cord biting deep into his throat as his airway clamped shut. He dragged himself upright, but it was no use, the knot had pulled too tight and his hands were still bound behind his back, so he had no way to even try to loosen the knot.

Heatly tried to rush to his aid, but Grimes caught him by the shirt and punched him three times to the face in rapid succession, still with that eerie look of calm on his face. He probably would have beaten the man further, but he was distracted by the figure that appeared out of the darkness.

Despite Grimes having lost touch with reality, he still had the presence of mind to draw his knife when he saw Guerrero moving towards him. Guerrero had anticipated this, and rather than rushing in, he forced himself to hold back and focus on the fight rather than the sight of Chance slowly having the life choked out of him.

Flecks were already beginning to cloud Chance's vision, but he thought he saw the metallic gleam of a knife in Guerrero's hand before his sight began to fade away. His head seemed to grow too heavy to hold up, and as it lolled backwards he thought, __That's good. Guerrero is very good with knives.__

"Help him," Guerrero said to Heatly.

A flicker of anger passed across Grimes' face, and his attention momentarily shifted back to where Heatly was struggling to his feet. Guerrero took advantage of the distraction and struck at with a punishing combination of blows that should have ended with a slash to the side of Grimes' neck, but as soon as the attack began, his attention snapped back to Guerrero. He countered his moves with a rapid series of blocks, before trapping Guerrero's arm against his body and raking his blade across Guerrero chest, leaving a long, but largely superficial gash, and shoving Guerrero away.

The move threw Guerrero for a second. There were only three rules when it came to a knife fight: expect to get cut; finish it fast; and fight to kill, because if you didn't, the other guy sure as hell would. There was nothing wrong with the speed of Grimes' movements, but the intent to kill, the will to strike the critical blow was not there.

There was no time to think. Chance was _not breathing_. How much time had passed since Grimes had kicked him? Thirty seconds? A minute? Chance was already losing consciousness. Had it been longer than that? How much longer did he have before it was too late?

Grimes kept looking at Chance, then Guerrero, then back to Chance again. Guerrero's blood was boiling, and every second was pulling Chance further away from him. Heatly had been right, Grimes still had the instincts and training to fight and kill, but for some reason he was holding back.

Guerrero tried again, throwing a flurry of punches, kicks and strikes at Grimes, but again he countered every move, deflecting what should have been lethal strikes into mere flesh wounds, scrapes and nicks. He was good, but not that good, and if Guerrero could just make himself focus on the fight instead of the colour draining from Chance's face, and the fact that he was __still not breathing,__ he could have made short work of taking Grimes down. But Chance's lips were now turning blue, despite Heatly's attempts to try to loosen the cable wrapped around his throat. If there was just more time…

Grimes seemed content to fight Guerrero off without making any attempt to finish the fight, and the way he kept throwing in wild, pointless slashes made it feel like he was just taunting him. In a sudden flash of clarity Guerrero understood what the SEAL was doing. He had no intention of even attempting to end the fight with Guerrero until Chance was dead. He'd been rambling on about some kind of test, but holding Guerrero off, keeping him occupied whilst Chance was strangled to death was his real objective. That's why he kept looking back at Chance; his life was just a way of keeping score. As long as Heatly's efforts to help Chance were ineffectual, he didn't bother to intervene; Guerrero was the real threat to the outcome of his "test".

Guerrero could see that if he didn't step in to help Chance immediately, it wouldn't matter what the outcome was with Grimes. So, as it had done more times than Guerrero cared to remember, it came down to doing what the other guy wouldn't, to pushing beyond the limits of what even a seasoned fighter might expect.

The exchange of blows was so fast that Guerrero was running on almost pure instinct, but he forced himself to push Chance from his mind and focus on finding the opening he needed. When the moment came, he almost missed it. His instinct was to deflect Grimes' blade away from himself when he went to make another of those infuriating slashes against his abdomen, but he caught himself just in time, and deflected the blow downwards and slammed his left leg onto the blade, burying it to the hilt into the flesh of his outer thigh.

There was a split second delay as Guerrero's nerve-endings took a moment to register the bone-jarring pain of the seven inch blade impaling his leg, but the adrenaline surging through his system at least kept him on his feet. Grimes seemed to be having trouble keeping up with events, and was trying to pull his knife free but the muscles in Guerrero's thigh had clamped down on the blade, making it next to impossible to pull it out. His face crumpled into a look of bewilderment as he kept tugging at the knife with both hands, seemingly unable to understand how it had got stuck, and Guerrero took advantage of his confusion and stabbed repeatedly at the undefended area under his left arm.

The look of confusion was replaced by one of surprise on Grimes' face as he stumbled sideways under the force of the attack, and Guerrero made one final vicious slash across his throat as Grimes slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief as he bled out onto the bare concrete floor.

Guerrero ditched his knife and scanned the array of tools hanging on the wall over the workbench, before grabbing a set of bolt cutters. His injured leg was stiff and next to useless as he dragged himself across to where Heatly was still trying to dig the cable out of Chance's neck.

"Hold him up!" Guerrero ordered, and the doctor did his best to hold Chance upright as Guerrero cut through the knot as close to Chance's neck as he could.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the cable gave way and Chance slumped back awkwardly into Heatly's arms. Guerrero didn't waste time trying to free Chance's hands and feet from where they were still tethered to the ring in the floor; the only thing that mattered was making him breathe. Guerrero dropped to the floor beside him and used the bolt cutters to work away at the remains of the knot until the cable finally fell away. He felt for a pulse, and it was there. Slow, but definitely there, despite the fact that Chance still wasn't breathing.

It wasn't the ideal position in which to perform mouth to mouth; Chance's limbs were tangled beneath him, but Heatly supported his head as Guerrero tipped it back, pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth with his own, forcing air into his lungs.

Guerrero was oblivious to the pain in his leg as he poured every ounce of strength and will power into bringing Chance back. There was little resistance as he forced the breath back into his body, and his chest was rising and falling, so it seemed that at least his airway had only been squeezed shut, not entirely crushed.

It took both an eternity and only three breaths before Chance gave a weak cough and began breathing on his own.

"Chance! Chance, can you hear me?" Guerrero asked, holding his face in his hands. "Open your eyes, dude…"

His eyelids started to flutter, and he tried to groan but the sound caught in his throat and turned into a dry, hacking cough.

"Just shut up and concentrate on breathing, okay?" Guerrero said with equal parts relief, affection and exasperation.

Chance opened his eyes and looked up at him. It took a second for him to focus on Guerrero's relieved and blood splattered face, but as soon as he did, his face broke out in a wide grin.

Guerrero smiled back at him and mutter an affectionate "dude" just as Chance's eyes rolled back and he passed out.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're friend is going to need a hospital," Heatly said. "I can call for an ambulance from the landline, if it's still connected, but…"

"No hospitals!" Guerrero snapped at him. He'd managed to cut Chance free from the restraints that had been tethering him to the ground, and Heatly had helped him get him lying on his side. Guerrero was sitting on the floor with Chance's head resting on his uninjured leg, and he was examining the extent of his injuries. As far as he could tell, the damage to his back was fairly superficial, nothing that wouldn't heal given time, but the fact that he was still drenched with gasoline was giving him cause for concern. Aside from the obvious threat of something igniting it, Guerrero knew that the gasoline alone could cause chemical burns if it was left on the skin long enough, and it wasn't going to do Chance's open wounds any good, not to mention his breathing.

Guerrero looked around and spotted a garden hose wrapped around a spool by a faucet on the wall, next to the door leading back to the house. "Hook that hose up and bring it over here. I need to wash this shit off of him."

Heatly did as he was ordered, turning on the water and handing him the hose in silence. Guerrero let the water flow over his hands, washing away the blood before gently wiping the gasoline from Chance's face. He took care to ensure that the water didn't run into his nose or mouth, and Chance began to stir.

"Easy," Guerrero murmured, as he rinsed the water through his hair.

When Guerrero seemed satisfied that he'd washed away as much gasoline from his face and head as he could, he sighed.

"Sorry Chance, but this is gonna hurt."

He winced as he turned the hose on to the bloody mess on Chance's back. The shock of the cold water on his wounds started to revive him, and Guerrero had to catch Chance's hand as he tried to reach behind him to fend off whatever was responsible for inflicting this new wave of agony.

"Hey, lie still," Guerrero murmured soothingly. "I've got you, okay? But I have to wash this shit off your back."

Chance shivered and screwed up his face as Guerrero continued to irrigate his wounds as gently as he could, but he did seem to respond to his voice and calm down a little, although he clung on to Guerrero's hand as if his life depended on it.

"Look, I understand your reluctance to involved the authorities, I really do," Heatly said, glancing over at where Grimes' body lay in a pool of blood, his eyes still wide open and staring up in disbelief at where Guerrero had stood. "But your friend, Chance, he needs a hospital and proper medical treatment! Listen to his breathing! The cable, the fumes and now being soaking wet! What's going to happen if his airway swells shut?"

Chance's breathing was laboured, and there was already bruising and swelling to his throat from where the cable had bitten deep into his flesh. Guerrero hadn't thought much past getting him breathing again, but he could see the doctor had a point, Chance's condition was anything but stable. There was his own wound to consider too, driving with a knife still sticking out of his leg was likely to prove difficult. He'd managed to miss all the major blood vessels, but his leg felt unnaturally heavy and unresponsive, as well as hurting like hell. He was in no condition to get either of them to one of his alternative healthcare providers, the nearest of whom was a alcoholic former army medic who was at least a half hour drive away.

"Fine," Guerrero sighed, resigning himself to the fact that, given the situation, he had no other choice. "Call an ambulance."

When Heatly didn't move, Guerrero frowned. "What are you waiting for? Move!"

"Mary is still in the trunk…"

"And she's gonna stay there until you call the fucking ambulance!"

Heatly looked as if he was going to push the matter, but when Guerrero dropped the hosepipe and reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his gun, he got the message and hurried inside the house to make the call without further argument.

Chance was still shivering, so Guerrero pried his hand free from his grip and managed to shrug his jacket off. It was wet and splattered in places with god-knows-whose blood, but it was better than nothing. Guerrero carefully placed it over Chance's arms and chest, taking care not to let it touch the seeping wounds on his back.

The whole nightmarish scene in the garage was going to require an explanation when the ambulance showed up , but Guerrero pushed the thought from his mind. It was obvious enough from Chance's wounds that he hadn't been the antagonist in all of this, and Guerrero would just have to deal with the fallout of his own actions later once Chance was warm, dry and suitably medicated.

Guerrero's concept of time was a little hazy as he sat with Chance waiting for the ambulance, but at some point the heard the sound of a vehicle pull up outside the garage. He tore his gaze away from Chance's shivering form and watched the doorway apprehensively, but when Winston walked in rather than the medical personnel he'd been hoping for, he grunted and turned back to watching Chance's laboured breathing.

"What the…?" Winston spluttered, looking around the garage and taking in the general carnage of the scene around him. "This is what you call handling a situation?"

Guerrero glared at him for a second, but didn't dignify his question with an answer.

"What the hell happened here?" Winston asked. "Why is Chance soaking wet?"

"What the fuck do you think happened?" Guerrero snapped. "That maniac nearly killed Chance! And he's wet because I thought water was preferable to gasoline, okay? You got any more questions?"

Winston frowned, and he was about to really lay into Guerrero when he noticed the knife sticking out of his leg and the blood that was seeping through his jeans. Guerrero was so intent on tending to Chance that he'd done nothing to staunch the slow ooze of blood from his own injury. He swallowed the harsh words he'd been about to throw in Guerrero's face when he realised that he'd done everything he could for Chance. Winston took off his own jacket and lay it carefully over Chance's legs, and for a second Guerrero actually looked grateful before his expression turned back into a concerned scowl.

"We need to get out of here. Heatly went to call an ambulance and we need to be gone before it shows up. I probably can't drive, but-"

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Winston snapped. "Look at him!" Chance was grey faced and shivering, and judging from the state of his back and the rasping sound of his breathing, it wasn't just from the cold. "What the hell are you going to do if he stops breathing? Did you even think of that? He needs proper medical attention. We can't just bundle him into the back on the van and take him off to see one of your shady contacts!"

"There's no time-"

"The ambulance is already on its way, Guerrero, and they have the equipment to help him! What are you going to do if he stops breathing? Give him a makeshift tracheotomy with a pocket knife and ballpoint pen?"

The thought of having to cut into Chance's throat turned Guerrero's stomach, and forced him to face the danger he'd be putting him into.

"Alright. Wait for the ambulance then. But I need to be gone before the cops show up. If you help get to the car I should be able to…" Guerrero's voice faded away as Chance reached for his hand and squeezed it. He looked down and saw a look of grim determination in Chance's eyes. "Dude, I can't…" Chance squeezed his hand again, harder this time, and tried to shake his head, which only set off another dry hacking cough.

"Hey, take it easy," Guerrero said, rubbing at Chance's hand, which was still gripping his. As soon as the coughing subsided, Chance mouthed the word "stay", effectively taking the decision out of Guerrero's hands. He could try and kid himself that he had to give in to Chance to keep him calm, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that. Chance needed him, and it would have taken more strength than he had to leave him like that.

"You really gonna leave him like this?" Winston asked.

"No," Guerrero sighed. "No, I'm not. I doubt I'd even be able to drive right now anyway."

Chance smiled at him, and Guerrero suspected that he knew the reason he was staying had nothing to do with whether he was able to drive or not.

"Well, you've managed to make one hell of a mess here!" Winston said, looking at Grimes' lifeless body. He found he had no sympathy for Grimes; whatever he'd done to Chance had nearly killed him, and he couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction in knowing that Guerrero had dealt with him so brutally.

"Yeah, but I wasn't exactly planning on sticking around to clean it up."

"I dropped Ames back at the apartment building and she fed NCIS some bullshit story about Grimes heading for the docks, but I don't think that will keep them busy for long, not when the paramedics get here and call it in."

Guerrero nodded and pulled his keys out of his pocket, holding them out to Winston. "Probably best if you let Heatly's receptionist out of the trunk before they get here."

Winston's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded and took the keys without a word, and headed back into the kitchen where Heatly was waiting.

"I didn't think it was wise to go back in there," Heatly admitted shame-facedly. "Not when your colleague was so upset and, well, armed.

"Good call," Winston said, handing him the keys to Guerrero's car.

Heatly accepted them with a grateful look.

"I don't think I need to point out that Guerrero is not a man you want to cross," Winston said. "Don't even think about taking off in his car."

The blood drained fom Heatly's face and he shuddered. "I don't have a death wish! I'll let Mary out and come straight back."

Winston nodded, picked up a clean-ish looking tea towel and walked back into the garage.

"You given any thought to how we're gonna explain all this?" he asked, crouching down and carefully pressing the towel to the wound on Guerrero's leg.

"Not really," Guerrero answered, wincing and slapping Winston's hands away. "It's pretty self-explanatory, don'tcha think?"

Winston grunted. "Not sure that's what the Navy guys are going to think."

"Maybe I can help."

Winston and Guerrero turned to look at Heatly, who was standing in the doorway with a terrified woman clinging to his side.

"Bit late for that, doc," Guerrero sneered.

Heatly winced. "All of this is my fault."

"No arguments there," Winston mumbled.

"So I think the least I can do is take responsibility for it. I'll tell NCIS that I hired you to monitor Grimes, and that when we found him, you fought but I was the one who killed him."

Guerrero let out a humourless laugh. "You really think anyone is going to buy that? You're a bit past your fighting days, doc."

"They don't need to believe it, they just need an explanation," Heatly replied. "The threat of going public about a decorated SEAL, a war hero no less, kidnapping and torturing an innocent private citizen should be enough for them to accept whatever explanation we agree on. The military abhors scandal."

"He has a point," Winston conceded. "I think it's worth a try."

Guerrero shook his head. "Fine. Whatever. You may want to consider finding my knife and putting your prints on it though."

"James, no!" the tearful woman at Heatly's side sobbed.

"It's alright, Mary," Heatly said. "I need to do this!"

"But he kidnapped you!" she said, pointing an accusing finger at Guerrero. "And he locked me in the trunk of his car and…"

"Is she gonna be a problem?" Guerrero asked, giving the woman a calculating look.

"No!" Heatly replied sharply.

"'Cause if she is…"

"She'll be fine!" Heatly insisted. "Won't you?"

"I can't… I can't lie about-"

"Maybe it's best if you just say you fainted," Winston said carefully. "You can tell them that you were in the car and didn't see anything. That's no too far from the truth."

Mary sobbed, but nodded her head.

"We'd better find that knife," Heatly said.

* * *

A police car turned up with the ambulance, but luckily the paramedics overruled the cops' attempts to get a statement from Guerrero, insisting that he join Chance in the back of the ambulance and be taken to hospital immediately. It was hard for the cops to put up much of an argument, what with the knife still lodged in Guerrero leg, and Chance's breathing was only getting worse, so they had to be content with talking to Winston, Healy and a very distraught Mary.

Riding in the back of the ambulance set Guerrero's teeth on edge, but Chance was definitely breathing easier once the paramedic started him on oxygen, and his colour soon improved. The medic only made the mistake of trying to give Guerrero some pain relief once, before turning his attention exclusively to treating Chance, who was visibly amused by what Guerrero had told the man he could do with his needles.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: For some inexplicable reason, I missed this chapter out when I was posting this version of the story! D'oh!

 

The detectives who showed up after Chance and Guerrero left in the ambulance were reluctant to hand over such an unusual case, so a couple of hours went by before Winston was cleared to leave the crime scene. As predicted, the NCIS officers weren't thrilled by the version of events Heatly and Winston gave them, but they were forced to consider them once Heatly outlined the alternative. The officer in charge related the situation to his CO in hushed tones over the phone, and the decision was made to accept Heatly's statement as the truth, pending further investigation. Winston was relieved that, against all protocol, Guerrero and Chance would not be questioned, and NCIS would be satisfied with a simple written statement from Chance.

When Winston arrived at the hospital he wasn't surprised to find that Guerrero had managed to secure Chance a private room, and was seated at his bedside with his injured leg propped up on the bed.

"Hey, how's he doing?" Winston asked, taking in the fairly spectacular bruising to Chance's face and neck, and the breathing tube.

"They had to intubate 'cause of the swelling to his throat, and so they could sedate him whilst they patched up his back," Guerrero explained, "but it's not quite as bad at it looks. If there aren't any complications with his breathing, he should be out in a couple of days. He took a good few knocks to the head, but the doctors don't seem too worried about it. He dislocated his shoulder at some point too, but either Grimes reset it for him or he managed to do it himself, so there shouldn't be any long-term damage."

Winston nodded, shocked both by Guerrero's uncharacteristically helpful explanation, and his exhausted, sarcasm-free tone of voice. He'd obviously been through a lot, and for once it really showed. Winston could see he was still worried about Chance, despite the positive prognosis.

"You really came through for Chance," he said.

"Don't I always?"

 _Damn him! Couldn't he just take a complement when it was offered?_

"How's your leg?" he asked.

"Still attached," Guerrero shrugged.

"Cut the macho bullshit, Guerrero! The last time I saw you, you had a knife sticking out of your leg! Shouldn't you be resting up in a bed of your own?"

"They wanted to take me into surgery, so I told them I didn't have insurance. They were happy to shoot me up with muscle relaxants and yank it out under a local. They stitched me up, gave me these nifty crutches and discharged me. No muss, no fuss."

Winston winced. "Heatly told me what happened. Did you really stick that knife in your leg yourself?"

"More or less, yeah."

"But why?"

"Chance was dying," Guerrero replied, as if that explained everything.

"But-"

"Look, I knew there was a good chance that if I got stabbed in the thigh, the knife was likely to get stuck so I could dispose of Grimes quickly and help Chance. Yes, it hurt like hell, but it got the job done. Any more questions?"

"So you knew it would work?"

Guerrero shrugged again. "Got enough knives stuck in other people's legs over the years to figure it was worth a shot."

Winston tried to push the image of Guerrero stabbing multiple victims in the spirit of scientific inquiry from his mind. He was certain that the idea was just a product of his imagination, but something about the image just seemed to lodge in his brain.

"They're keeping Chance sedated over night," Guerrero said. "So you may as well go home."

"I've got to go pick up Ames first. I spoke to her earlier and she's made herself quite comfortable in that woman's apartment."

"You might want to check her pockets before she leaves."

"Probably not a bad idea," Winston smiled. "Speaking of bad ideas, you should be resting. Falling asleep in that chair is not gonna do you any favours. If Chance is gonna be sedated the whole time anyway…"

"It's fine. I've made arrangements."

Winston waited for him to elaborate, but Guerrero went back to watching the rise and fall of Chance's chest.

"You need anything?" Winston asked, expecting the answer to be no.

"Yeah," Guerrero frowned looking down at his blood stained shirt and the faded pair of hospital scrubs he'd been given to replace his jeans which had been cut open to gain access to his injury. "Any chance you could grab my a pair of jeans and maybe a clean shirt on your way in tomorrow?"

Winston raised his eyebrows and made a note of Guerrero's size.

"Nothing to tight though. I still gotta be able to get them on over this dressing."

"Call me if anything changes," Winston said.

It was a long night, and Guerrero didn't get much sleep, but thanks to the fold out bed he'd procured from nervous orderly, at least he could stretch out in relative comfort. There was no visible change in Chance's condition, and the nurse who checked up on him periodically through the night tried to reassure Guerrero that he was doing well.

It was nine am before the doctor made his rounds, and Guerrero was about to kick up a stink if someone didn't come and tell him what was going on ,when the doctor finally arrived.

"And you are?" the doctor inquired.

"Your patient's partner," Guerrero said.

"I see."

The doctor looked over Chance's chart before performing a brief examination.

"We should be able to extubate Mr Chance this afternoon," he said, scribbling on Chance's notes and returning them to the foot of his bed.

As he started to leave, Guerrero said: "Wait. That's it?"

The doctor gave a heavy sigh. "Your partner has been very fortunate. His condition is stable, there appear to be no complications and the swelling in his throat is already going down. His other injuries are relatively minor. We'll need to keep an eye on him for a day or two to make sure that he doesn't develop any respiratory infections, but aside from that there is little we can do other than make him comfortable and give his body the chance to heal."

Guerrero sank into the chair beside Chance's bed. It seemed so surreal. Yesterday Chance was dying. Today he just needed some time to rest and recuperate.

"If you have any further questions, please feel free to address them with a member of the medical staff."

Guerrero nodded, only half aware of what the doctor was saying to him.

 _Chance really was going to be okay…_

* * *

Winston spent the morning fielding phone calls from NCIS. He knew that it was too good to be true, the way they released him from the crime scene with little more than a promise to ensure Chance provided a written statement. Once they completed the investigation and clean-up of the garage, they started looking into Chance's involvement in the case, which meant they were investigating the team too. Winston tried to keep Ilsa's name out of it, but they made the connection with the Marshall Pucci Foundation on their own. Even though Winston tried to explain that the team no longer had any kind of affiliation with the Foundation, they contacted Ilsa anyway, so he had to spend an hour or so on the phone to London persuading her that Chance was going to be okay, and there was no need for her to fly back to be at his bedside. In the end he had to resort to telling her about Guerrero's bedside vigil, which did make her back off, but left him feeling like a total asshole for rubbing her face in it.

Guerrero phoned mid-morning to tell him that they were going to remove Chance's breathing tube in the afternoon, and where the hell were those fresh clothes he'd been promised? Winston hadn't exactly forgotten, but clothes shopping for Guerrero was way down his list of priorities. He told Guerrero that Ames would stop by with the clothes. As much as he wanted to be there when Chance woke up, he just couldn't get away.

"So I get to dress Guerrero?" Ames asked.

"No you get to buy him a shirt and pair of jeans, and drop them at the hospital. Don't even think about getting creative!"

Ames pouted a little, but agreed to buy only the items Guerrero had requested. Winston was still a little suspicious of the glint in her eye, but figured she couldn't go far wrong with a pair of jeans and a shirt. Besides, if what she picked out was really that awful Guerrero still had his scrubs. Plus there would be doctors on hand if she was stupid enough to piss him off.

* * *

Guerrero nodded off in the chair beside Chance's bed after the doctor's visit. The fold out bed had been tucked away for the day, and he'd only intended to close his eyes for a moment or two, but he fell into a deep sleep.

He was abruptly woken up when Ames dumped a bag in his lap, and he reached for his gun, only to remember that Winston had insisted he had it over before he got into the ambulance.

"What the fuck?"

"Oh my god! He looks half dead!" Ames said, leaning over Chance. "He's gonna be alright though? Winston said he's gonna by fine, right?"

"Yeah, the doc said there's no lasting damage," Guerrero said, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes.

"Chance! Can You Hear Me!" Ames said, loudly enunciating every word at if she was speaking to someone hard of hearing. "It's Ames, Chance!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Guerrero asked.

"It's supposed to help, right? Hearing a familiar voice. It helps them wake up or something."

"He's not in a coma, you retard! He's sedated! He'll wake up just fine when they stop giving him the drugs!"

"Oh," Ames said, looking a bit deflated.

Guerrero investigated the contents of the bag. The jeans were fine, but nestled beneath them was a red t-shirt, and when Guerrero unfolded it, Ames grinned.

"Ames."

"Yes?"

"What the fuck is this?"

"It's a t-shirt Guerrero."

"I see that. But why does it have a picture of a rainbow on it?"

"I thought it was cheerful. Don't you like it?"

"And the unicorn?"

"Er, it went with the rainbow?"

"Leave."

"What?"

"Leave. Now, before I change my mind."

"But-"

"Get. Out. NOW!"

"Jeez, I was only trying to lighten things up a bit," she sniggered, ducking the water jug that Guerrero launched at her head as she ran out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

When Chance found that he couldn't swallow, he panicked a little. The sensation wasn't of his throat being crushed, rather that it was being held open by something plastic and slightly too large.

" _He's coming round…"_

Somewhere deep in the fog of his mind, he realised that he must be in a hospital and the cause of the odd sensation in his throat was helping him breathe.

He forced himself to relax, and sank back into the fog.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He surfaced again later, unsure of how much time had passed.

" _I need you to cough, Christopher!"_

" _It's Chance. Just Chance. No one calls him Christopher."_

He recognised the second voice as Guerrero.

" _Please cough for me, Mr Chance!"_

He coughed, and there was an odd pulling, sliding sensation as the tube was removed, and then he could swallow again.

" _Excellent."_

He drifted a bit after that. Not quite conscious, but not quite asleep either, but he was dimly aware of the presence of someone at his bedside, and that he'd been propped up into a reclining position.

When the fog finally receded, he saw Guerrero watching him anxiously. Chance smiled.

"Hey," Guerrero said.

"Hey yourself," Chance tried to reply, surprised by how hoarse he sounded, and the way the words seemed to catch in his throat. He tried to cough, but that just made his throat sore.

Guerrero poured him a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand.

"Here. Drink it slowly."

Chance sipped at it, and the tepid water did help soothe away the urge to cough somewhat.

He handed the glass back to Guerrero, and as he did, he noticed his t-shirt for the first time and frowned.

 _I must be on the good stuff,_ he thought _, 'cause there's no way Guerrero is really wearing a t-shirt with a unicorn on it._

"What's wrong?" Guerrero asked, concerned.

Chance pointed to his chest and said: "Unicorn?"

Guerrero relaxed a little and rolled his eyes. "That would be Ames' idea of a joke. I needed fresh clothes 'cause people kept bleeding over the last lot."

Chance grinned, and his shoulders shook with the effort of trying not to laugh and aggravate his throat further. Unfortunately the movement made him hurt everywhere else instead. He was fairly sure that the pain in his ribs and shoulder, although unpleasant, was mainly just bruising, but he had no idea what kind of shape his back was in. He reasoned that it couldn't be too bad if the doctors had been happy for him to lie flat on his back, but as the drugs wore off the skin felt stretched too tight and sore.

"My back…"

"Yeah, Grimes messed it up pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Well, you remember the ngulu blade?"

Chance winced. "Yeah."

"Well, it's nothing like that bad, so don't be a baby about a few stitches and some bruising."

Again Chance struggled not to laugh, and it made his ribs hurt and pulled at the stitches in his back. He flinched.

"Shit! Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, you did. But it's okay. I'll live."

They sat in silence for a while.

"You nearly didn't," Guerrero said. "Live, I mean. It was a close call."

"Yeah. Some of it's still a bit hazy, but I remember…" Chance fell silent for a moment. "I remember seeing you walk into the garage."

"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"Me too," Chance said, smiling. "But I knew you'd come through for me. You always do."

Guerrero gave an amused grunt.

"What?" Chance asked.

"Just something Winston said when you were out for the count."

Chance tried to reach for the water at his bedside, but found that twisting his body was a very bad idea. Guerrero passed him the glass.

"Take it easy. You're gonna have to rest up for a bit. How's your throat?"

"Sore," Chance admitted, after he'd emptied the glass.

"All this talking can't be helping."

"So shut up then!"

 ______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The hospital staff were a little surprised just how quickly Chance bounced back once the sedatives had left his system. It wasn't unusual for someone who'd had a near-death experience to wake up with a renewed lust for life, but once the initial euphoria had passed, most patients would settle down once they had to face the reality of forced inactivity, pain management and boredom. Chance's good mood, however, was irrepressible

He accepted the pain meds that were given to him, but there was none of the usual pleading for stronger drugs, even when it was obvious that he was still in a lot of discomfort. He let doctors run their tests and perform their exams, but when he was offered the opportunity to speak to a psychologist (standard procedure in cases of strangulation or hanging) he politely but firmly declined.

His companion was far less accommodating, grumbling and glaring at anyone who dared enter the room and disturb the marathon poker game that he'd roped an orderly and one of the nurses into playing to keep his friend entertained. It didn't seem to matter how many times the Head Nurse confiscated the cards and threatened to kick the man in the ludicrous t-shirt out, Chance would give her a sorrowful look and charm her into letting him stay. She knew she was being played, but it was hard to resist when she knew she would be rewarded with a pulse-raising smile, complete with dimples, when she caved.

The poker game only came to an end in the evening, when Chance's other visitors returned.

"What the hell doing you think you're playing at, Guerrero?" Winston demanded, once he'd kicked the nurse and the orderly out of Chance's room. "Chance is supposed to be resting!"

"It's fine. Stop making such a fuss," Chance insisted.

"You nearly died! I think that merits a fuss!"

"But I didn't though. Look, still here!" Chance gave him a friendly little wave to prove his point.

Winston huffed and scowled at him.

"Aren't ya glad to see me?" Chance teased.

Winston sighed. "Yes, I'm glad to see you. You had us all worried."

"Not me," Ames chipped in. "I knew you were gonna be okay."

Guerrero grunted. "Says the girl who thought Chance was in a coma."

"Yeah, but I knew he was going to wake up!"

"And you didn't see the state him when we found him in that garage," Winston pointed out.

"We?" Guerrero said, raising a cynical eyebrow.

"Okay, when Guerrero found him."

Chance smiled and closed his eyes. He could feel the last lot of painkillers kicking in and they were making him drowsy. He fell asleep to the comforting sounds of his friends bickering with each other, feeling exhausted and sore, but content.


End file.
